


Searching Through the Void

by TabisMouse



Series: In the Void [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, POV James Bond, Post-SPECTRE, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:59:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6984181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TabisMouse/pseuds/TabisMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Standing on the bridge he'd made his choice. Bond had left it all behind, the government, Mallory, MI-6, and with them all he'd left the Quartermaster. But leaving was relative when he kept reading the messages sent to him but never intended for his eyes. Then Q was kidnapped and leaving was no longer an option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reading

**Author's Note:**

> Again, a big thanks to those who have followed and supported this story, really this is all your fault! (and I love you all, don't hurt me) Also, again, thanks to i_feel_electric and Castastrophe because seriously their input has made this all so much better.

Driving had always been an act of liberation for Bond. He’d spent a lifetime of schooling, military, espionage, only knowing enough to complete the assignment, the order, the mission. But when driving there was only him and the feel of leather smooth and fitted to the form of his hands, the thrill of adrenaline from taking corners much too tight, and the crystal clear dome of blue arcing over him, dotted with the white of drifting clouds. 

He drove as if he were running, fleeing what he'd left behind. 

"You know what you're doing, Bond," he'd chastised himself. _ Leaving one last thing for .... something else. _

He could have asked, the words had burned on his tongue before dying on his lips. He knew, almost by looking, as if he could read the Quartermaster's mind through his eyes. Had he asked Q would have followed. 

He didn't ask. Bond still knew how to do the right thing. So he drove until he arrived at the small cafe, pulling up to the curb and smirking as he eyed the woman sitting at a small wrought-iron table. She met his eye evenly before pulling a scarf from her bag and wrapping it around her hair. She stood and walked to the car. She was beautiful, in a cold, detached way.

His heart ached to look at her but he noted the feeling was a pale echo of what he felt when he'd first driven off. He quirked his lips in an attempt at a smile as she settled in. He tried to mean it sincerely. The quirk in her brow told him he'd failed. It didn't matter as he revved the engine and flew through the streets of London.

They made one stop, at a small, nondescript flat in the middle of urban banality for Bond to collect a small suitcase’s worth of items.  Madeleine  waited for him by the door, quietly taking in the space. It wasn’t empty it was just - devoid, impersonal. There was nothing in the spartan furniture or bare walls that spoke to the man who claimed to live there, which perhaps said enough. 

Bond moved quickly, gathering clothes, and stopped just before leaving the room to grab the overcoat hooked in the door of his closet. He let it drape over one arm as he slung the bag over his shoulder and paused. There was a peculiar weight to the coat. He hefted it a few times and furrowed his brow as he looked down. Probably a phone, he thought, then walked out to join  Madeleine  . 

 

The first few weeks were spent adrift, flitting from country to country.  Madeleine  proved as adept at the lifestyle as Bond expected her to be, yet after the second month he could tell by the set of her shoulders it was starting to wear. They didn’t speak of it and yet when they approached their 8th day in Cape Town he said nothing about moving on. He chatted about plans for a round of golf in a few days and she’d nodded, but the soft slump of her shoulders signaled relief. 

After the second week they’d begun what he was sure she would term ‘sessions’ if what was between them wasn’t romantic. Perhaps it was the nature of her profession and it was to be expected that she would dig a bit. It was not lost on him that the woman he  _ chose _ to leave his past with was a practicing psychologist. It had begun with languid post-coital talks in the semi dark of a hotel room. By the time they were looking for a shared flat in Cape Town they both knew they would need a second bedroom.

“Surely there must be some rule about sleeping with one’s therapist,” Bond said as they watched movers position a sofa in beneath a Rembrandt print. He smiled after a beat. An attempt at softening the hint of bitterness in his tone. 

“Likely, but I doubt there’s one against making your girlfriend your therapist,”  Madeleine  replied smoothly. She’d grown adept at sailing past his moods, smooth as a skiff over placid water, paying no mind to his turbulent depths. She moved forward to thank the movers before herding them away to the other rooms. Bond stayed behind, hand reaching reflexively for the phone in his pocket. He thumbed it open, MI6 technology recognizing his DNA signature. 

He should have left it behind or discarded it somehow, but when he and  Madeleine  had settled in that first night, he’d dug it out of the coat and seen a little flashing light notification, a message from Q. 

He kept the phone fully charged now, and on him as often as possible. The messages came with irregularity, but they came. It was wrong, he knew, reading them. A violation for all that they were addressed to him. But he could not help himself. There was something soothing and familiar in Q’s words. He could hear the familiar cadence of his voice when he read them. Rereading them had become a habit. 

He opened the one from New Year and reread the words Q had sent out into the void, to him. 

_ I’m in love with you. Have been for years. I Was an idiot for never saying anything. _

 

The words brought the same, familiar stabbing ache he’d felt the first time he read them five days gone. He scrolled to pull up the one that had followed the next day. Q had been in a panic at the thought of Bond actually reading his emails.  _ Yes, that’s guilt, _ he acknowledged to the emotion surging up his chest, but he went back and reread Q’s confession again. He could likely recite it in his sleep. It didn’t matter. He still read it a dozen times a day. 

He went back further, to Q on Christmas. 

_ Do you remember last year? At the party. There was a moment where you looked at me and time did that thing where it slows down. For a moment I thought you'd kiss me. _

Bond sank down onto the couch still wrapped in plastic and closed his eyes. He remembered. Q had actually been in a suit. Not bespoke. Likely off some god-forsaken rack somewhere and yet it had hugged the lean lines of his body in the most distracting way. Bond’s heart began to race as he let the memory spin out. 

His hair had been styled, not its usual shaggy mop but properly done, sleek and black. Alcohol had flushed his cheeks as red as his lips and they’d bumped one another awkwardly in a too-dimly lit corner. 

It had been a scene out of a movie, snow falling, people milling around yet miles away as they shared a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, eyes locked on one another. Bond had wanted, longed, almost leaned into the kiss. Q had licked his lower lip and the shock that skittered under Bond’s skin had been, unfamiliar and oh, so welcome. 

He still wasn’t sure what had happened, a shift in the light or music, the fracturing of some part of the universe ricocheting into them, but the moment had slipped by, gone as quick as it arrived and Q had nodded and smiled an awkward half smile as he moved to kiss Eve on the cheek.

_ Better that that moment had never happened, but at least I didn’t give in _ , Bond told himself. It was becoming easier to believe his nagging inner voice. Q had proved a temptation increasingly potent to James. He’d avoided his Quartermaster as much as possible after that night.  _ It’s for the best. _

 

“James, I need you!”  Madeleine’s  voice echoed through the half empty apartment and James started, guilty. He chastised himself as he stood and pocketed the phone. It would not do for an agent to lose himself so to thought. Nevermind that he wasn’t an agent any longer. 

“Having a moment?”  Madeleine  asked as he joined her in the bedroom. Bond gave her a crooked smile. 

“Testing the space,” he provided. She gave him a weighing look. They’d never mentioned Q, in their impromptu ‘sessions’ but he knew she suspected there was  _ someone _ . She prodded elsewhere when they spoke, however, and so she let it drop. 

Bond tried to lose himself in the orientation of the bedroom furniture but really he didn’t give a fuck. Finally after she’d agonized over the angle of the bed for ten seconds too long he turned and summarily dismissed the movers. “I can finish this myself,” he said, “now if you don’t mind close the door on your way out.” He hovered close to the men as they packed up to leave. Not quite looming but making it incredibly uncomfortable for them to stay. Effortlessly,  Madeleine  cut him off and led the men to the entry.

He stared  Madeleine  across their cavernous bedroom when she returned. She eyed him, and he felt himself weighed and measured. The judgement was unpleasant. He slid forward to wrap a hand around her waist. “James-” she attempted a protest which he silenced with a kiss, maneuvering her backwards onto the bed. “James there aren’t even sheets.”

“I won’t make too much a mess,” he promised. He dropped his fingers to unfasten the buttons of her blouse then kissed her again. She softened, pliant in his arms.  _ Too soft. _

She was stunningly pretty, he always told himself so when he saw the pale curves of her body flush with arousal. His body began to respond and yet a part of him remained detached, observing, a clockwork orange performing the rites and rituals of love in body only. He kissed her with a passion that transmuted longing. Joining with her was an ablution and, God, but she deserved so much more.

Bond made no pretense to not being horribly broken. 

After, they lazed in the overlarge tub of the ensuite, Bond being true to his word and leaving the mattress nearly as immaculate as it had been before they started.   Madeleine ’s small frame tucked in over his neatly and he dragged a wandering hand over her skin, tracing its lines down to the water and back up over arm and collar, neck and brow. 

“Do you love me James?” She asked.

A vice clamped around his heart. He could not answer. There was no way she missed the tensing of his body as it surrounded her.

The next message came through at 6:50 in the morning that Saturday. His eyes opened as the light on the phone beneath the bed began to flash an eerie glow on the wall across from him. He always slept facing the wall, just in case. 

Madeleine ’s breath was soft and even with sleep. She lay curled up against his back, small hand draped over his hip. Slowly he shifted out from under it and retrieved the phone, escaping to the restroom to read under the pretense of using the loo. 

_ 5 days since I’ve been in my flat. 5 whole long bloody days at MI6. I should requisition a better couch for my office. I’m the bloody Quartermaster I deserve better than a futon.  _

_ Don’t criminals and international terrorists take bloody holidays?  _

_ I’m so tired my mind is a jumbled mess. I close my eyes and all I see is code. 10 years ago I could chug a redbull and be fine … now...  _

_ And don’t give me shit about my age I’m 33 for fuck’s sake. _

_ I can’t sleep. My mind keeps racing. My head’s spinning. _

_ I’m so tired. _

James smiled as his mind supplied an image of a sleepy Q compiled of many a late nights watching the man stumble to his office after all night handling a mission. Also, there was no way the man was 33. Though James had hacked personnelle himself and knew it to be fact, his Quartermaster always seemed so much younger. It was probably those terrible cardigans. And the hair. 

Bond was overcome with the urge to run his hands through that unruly mane. He cursed himself for never doing it though he knew it was wholly inappropriate and he was fully justified in never having done so. 

Longing and Quartermaster were synonymous within Bond, however. He let himself indulge, lulled by the surreal light of pre-dawn in a foreign restroom into wallowing in the misery of missed opportunity.

 

The day that dawn brought he and  Madeleine  spent shopping. It was incredibly domestic. He tried to find joy in it. This was what he wanted, what he’d chosen. He couldn’t help but prowl as they walked from shop to shop. He carried parcels, swiped his credit card, and took mental note of every person that walked past. 

“James,”  Madeleine  said. There was a  _ tone _ to her voice. 

His back went rigid and he felt a chill freeze the muscles of his eyes. Consciously loosening he turned, giving her the closest to childlike innocent eyes he could muster. “ Madeleine ,” he said, teasing a smile into his lips. 

“I see what you are doing,” she said as she hooked an arm through his and walked him down the crowded street. 

“I’m assisting a beautiful woman as she spends all of my money,” he said, lifting his hand to display his burdens.  Madeleine  pressed into his side as if playfully seeking closeness but there was a sharpness to her eyes.

“I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t bring it,” she said with a sigh. 

“You said something but I brought it.” He snapped, subtly adjusting the gun holster she’d shoved askew with her shoulder.

“You chose to bring it.”

“It is a part of me.”

“A part of you that you chose to keep with you.”

“Yes.”

He shrugged off her arm and they walked a block, side by side, before she spoke again. “Until you make a different choice you will never be able to move forward.” He grunted but did not respond. There was no response to make. 

They walked until they passed a bistro  Madeleine  had come to like. He arched a brow at her in question and she nodded, breaking the tension between them with a forgiving smile. 

They sat in the summer sun and gave their orders then sat in quiet silence. 

“What will you do, James?” she asked when her salad arrived. 

“Do?”

“Surely you don’t expect to putter around our flat for the rest of your life.”  Madeleine  took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “What do retired agents do with their retirement?”

“Agents don’t retire.” 

“You did.”

James took a bite of his steak and regarded the adjacent plaza. 

“Did you truly have no vision for what your life would be like?” She asked.

No, he hadn’t. His life should have ended a dozen times over. “I could drive a cab,” he offered, straight faced. 

 

James did try driving a cab but the company didn’t take kindly to his opinion that speed limits were more suggestion than stricture. A few days of restless puttering alone in their flat, watching the ships at sea inspired him to buy a boat and secure a fishing license. It was small time but days spent on the ocean, in the sun, focused only on the next haul lent a certain comforting rhythm to his days. 

January slipped into February and the emails came every few days. James counted time from one to the next.

Q wrote about his training, about the development of the exploding pen. He wanted so desperately to reach out, to respond when the messages turned to fear and self-doubt. He wanted to reassure that whatever Q may feel on his end of the comms, from the agent’s side he was always steady, an unswerving eye of calm in the storm of a mission. For all his shaky hands, his voice had been the rock anchoring Bond through mission after mission. And Bond knew his fellow agents felt the same.

Instead he read Q’s words and ached for him in silence.

The dreams began then, as he went to sleep imagining Q looking small and fragile in his office, nursing a drink after a midnight mission. The dream became a recurring feature in his nightly routine. He never discussed it with  Madeleine , though she would know what they meant. That was why it passed unmentioned. 

Even James knew what it presaged. 

He stood in the dark, in the middle a bridge, space and time distorting around him in the surreal way of dreams. There was a hazy rain falling and everything at the edge of the light of a single lamp post blurred and fell soft at the seams. He knew this bridge. He could open a map of London and point right to it with barely a glance. He’d walked it dozens of times yet only one time was seared into his mind. 

The slight shape of a woman, clothed in darkness but limned in a golden glow that made her hair shine like a beacon on a far shore, stood just on the far side of the bridge. His eyes ached just to look at her, a Goddess in a storm. 

Behind him should have been Mallory and MI6. That had been the reality. But this was a tortured construct of his mind not a memory, so when he turned his Quartermaster looked back at him, dark hair dripping wet over his eyes. They beckoned him. Q’s mouth fell open, as if to call to him but there was no sound. 

A wash of emotion surged over him and he almost raised a hand, almost lifted a foot to stride forward. Standing on that bridge he knew, despite years of restraint and walls built so carefully high, he knew what love was, the drive to consume and be consumed in the fire of another soul. Its scars were etched just under his skin, seared with the fire of blue eyes in the moment before they went black.  _ Vesper _ . 

He’d recognized the spectre of love when it first reared its ugly head, staring at a painting of a bloody big ship in the cavernous halls of a gallery, Q’s smile mocking him underneath an unruly mop of hair. He remembered, standing on the bridge in a nightmare of a dream. He remembered Q, the first moment they met, the moment he left, and all the moments in between. But above all that he remembered the lessons Vesper had taught him of love.

In a pouring rain, standing on wet road, he turned to the golden woman, he made his choice again, forsaking redemption for exile.

Yet with every step the bridge seemed to lengthen, an eternity passed as he stepped on wet pavement looking to the shape of the woman but it blurred then disappeared just out of sight as the rain turned from a drizzle to a downpour. 

He woke without a start, eyes coming open to midnight darkness, breath coming in even and slow despite his pounding heart. It was the training. 

He shifted and reached for the phone. Softly padding to the living room, he sank into a large, overstuffed chair, the night breeze coming in from large open windows, cooling his overheated skin. James didn’t bother with light, he unlocked the phone and read through Q’s last few messages.

The Quartermaster was nervous. James’s heart ached for him.  _ It’s common _ , he wanted to say. He half typed a message. He wanted to tell Q that the first few missions were always fraught for new field agents. He wanted to hold him and tell him it would be ok. Q was sharp, in mind and body. Just a few sparring lessons had been enough for him to see. Q never made the same mistake twice and his eyes saw more than he thought. All he lacked was training and he had full confidence in the trainers of MI6. 

The same skills Q used in his hacking, the preternatural instinct honed over years of infiltrating supposedly unbreakable systems came from the same place as the fighter’s instinct. Properly trained Q could be lethal. His problem wasn’t ability but knowledge. 

James reread the message about Q’s brother. He’d known Q had a twin, a close one at that. He’d never had anyone really, but theoretically he could appreciate the loneliness and heartbreak that could come from lying to your other half.

It was part of the job but there was enough compassion in him to want to soothe that pain away. 

Like so much else with Q, however, he shoved those urges deep down. He deleted his response. Q didn’t need to know how deeply Bond was betraying him. He sighed, promising himself one more reread before he stowed the phone away again. He’d read half the email when a new message appeared. 

His chest constricted in apprehension at the subject line. “Things not good”.

_ I’m waiting...killing time. There’s a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something is wrong but I’m not sure what. 009 was supposed to check in with me an hour ago and I’m still waiting. I’ll give him 10 more minutes then I’ll head back to base. This park bench is freezing..988997h _

_ …………….kkkkkkkkkkkkkkk _

_ Sdoinxk.,i’asdn _

_ Dddsfffff--0-               =-0 _

_ 99 _

_ -Sent from my iPhone _

  
He was up, moving before his mind could process. If he stopped to think there would be no moving again. Rushing to the room, he dressed and was on the street in minutes, making for a safe-house he hoped was still extant.


	2. Searching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this early as I'll be out late tomorrow. Enjoy!

_ It was dark and cold. Damp seeped into his skin, chilling his bones. He blinked but there was no penetrating the darkness. There was a sound at his side and he turned to it. Moving a wary hand, he groped along the floor.  _

_ He brushed up against something rough but yielding.  _

_ “Is someone there?”  _

_ Q’s heart sank as he recognized the voice. “Daniel-” His brother jerked against him and Q gripped him with both hands. “Daniel it’s me.” _

_ “David? David that’s you?” _

_ “Yes, it’s me.” _

_ “Where are we? What’s happened?” _

_ Q placed a finger over Daniel’s lips, signalling for quiet. He moved his hand down to grip his twin’s and began to tap his fingers against Daniel’s palm in a variant of morse code they’d developed as children. _

“We’ve been kidnapped. Whatever you do, don’t tell them what you do, don’t tell them anything.”

_ Daniel’s hand turned in his and he tapped a response. “ _ Why _?” _

_ “ _ I do more than computer things for the government. And my cover’s been blown. They must have only had a photo, _ ” Q explained. _

_ “ _ What kind of things? _ ” _

_ Q didn’t respond. Daniel repeated, “ _ what kind of things? _ ” _

_ “ _ I’m sorry, Danny, _ ” Q tapped. “ _ Don’t tell them anything about yourself. I’ll get us out of here. _ ” _

 

Something within him felt like it was breaking. From the safe house he managed to secure funds to get him quickly out of the country and back to London. The actions were rote, almost reflex and time seemed to blur around the clench that tightened his gut.

His mind spun with memories of Q, crashing into every moment as he tried to breathe around the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. 

The flight was torture. Sleep was impossible and thoughts inevitable. 

“ _ You’re not broken James, _ ” Madeleine's voice echoed as he imagined Q’s face.  He’d fallen in love and cooly, methodically locked those feelings away. It hadn’t taken Q’s confession to reveal the other man’s reciprocation. It had been evident in the way his eyes lit up when he saw James, the way his body turned towards his, in the layered emotions in his voice on the other end of their comms.

Bond left, knowing both of their hearts. A living, breathing, beautiful Q anchoring all of MI-6 was the only thing that had allowed him to walk to Madeleine on that bridge. 

He would be damned if his heart led him to another watery grave.

The stewardess making her rounds before their final descent avoided him, body language giving away her discomfort. Bond made no effort to soften the hardness he knew burned in his eyes. The only thing holding his world together had been taking, unravelling the careful walls he’d constructed around the fractured fragments of his life.

 

"You look like shit James."

"Eve." Bond remained standing at the window on the far side of her living room. She kicked off her heels and laid her laptop bag on the coffee table, nonplussed at coming home to an occupied apartment despite living alone.

"Last I heard you were in South Africa."

"London now."

She crossed to sit in the love seat across from him. "James-" she started.

He cut her off. The note of sympathy in that one word was unbearable. "Where was he?"

Her head dropped and she sighed. "You know I can't tell you that." She leaned forward to unzip her bag and riffled through several folders. "You aren't MI-6 anymore. It's privileged information." She pulled out one folder, opened it and regarded its contents. "It's been 48 hours, he could be anywhere by now." She closed the folder and regarded him in silence for a long moment.

Bond could hardly bear to look at her. 

"009 is dead," she whispered. "We found his body last night."

Bond’s heart began to pound but he pushed down the surge of emotion. Too much was already roiling within him. He had to maintain control, to lose that would be to fear and he had no time for that. “What’s being done?”

She held his eyes and placed the folder on the coffee table. “You know I can’t tell you that either, James.” She gave the folder a little nudge, letting slide between them, before settling back into her seat. “You really do look terrible. Have you slept?”

“Have you?” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone.

“This is the first I’ve been home in four days,” she replied evenly, refusing to rise to his bait. She felt too tired. “Do you want to rest?” 

Bond shook his head, eyes staring down at the street outside the window. She rose, crossing the room to stand opposite him, the blue glow from the street below lighting her face. She did look tired, he noted, flicking his eyes up at her for a half-second before looking back at the street. She looked down to see where he was staring. “You still have it,” she said, speaking of the car parked in the alley behind her building. It was the one he’d taken from MI-6 just before he left.The car with all of the Quartermaster’s upgrades, including GPS tracking.

Their eyes met and she smiled. He knew she’d got the message. She lifted a hand, slender fingers tapping at a button of his shirt. She arched an elegant brow: an offer. 

She knew him well enough to know what she was offering, but he refused. He gave her an apologetic smile and stepped back. 

“Good for you, Bond,” she whispered. A gentle hand brushed at the fringe of his hair across his brow. It felt like a kiss, it was barely a caress. “Find him, please.” 

“I will,” James said, resolute. “Him  _ and _ those who took him.”

Her smile was grim and she stepped away, walking back into the darkness of her flat. James retrieved the folder on the coffee table before he went the way he’d come. 

 

Bond drove, the streets whipping by in a rain-drenched blur. The weather accommodated his mood, he noted with a grim kind of satisfaction. For all that his grip of the wheel was loose and the set of his shoulders relaxed, fury burned under the surface of his skin. 

He kept his eyes on the road, though the folder seemed to radiate with its own heat, pulling at him. 

He turned into a building, muscle memory guiding the car into its parking space and him up to his abandoned apartment. He let himself in and went straight for the back bedroom. 

The memory of Q’s voice haunted him. _“You need a_ _safe coded to your genetic signature? You know you could_ buy _a decent model through a number of quality manufacturers. This_ is _London, after all. We have quite a lot of things available should you need security.”_ Q’s face had been stern but his eyes had sparkled in that way that always contracted Bond’s heart. Nonetheless, a small safe had appeared in Bond’s flat a month later. 

Bond had appreciated Q’s handiwork, if only for the opportunity to witness the Quartermaster’s skill at entering without breaking. When pressed, Q had only offered an enigmatic smile and mumbled words about a mis-spent youth, then asked how he liked the bloody thing.

Entering in his passcode and palming open the safe, Bond shoved those memories away. He retrieved the laptop from the safe and left it open.

Powering up the machine he let it warm up while he skimmed through the folder Eve had left him. Sure enough, it was as Q had indicated in his emails. New players jockeying for position in the vacuum of Spectre’s demise. 

It was the one problem with crime: there was always more. No matter how many heads one cut off, the hydra always sprouted another one or a dozen. Their names were almost irrelevant at this point, an interchangeable morass of vileness and depravity grasping for power and control. All that mattered was that they existed, they had taken the one human being alive that had come to mean anything to him, and he was going to destroy them.

Seville. Q had been part of an operation in the south of Spain tracking a Spectre offshoot looking to secure a clandestine shipping route into Europe via its port. Bond recognized a few names listed in the rosters of the mission briefing. They’d once been small-time but seemingly had moved up in the world. It was enough to start with.

He turned his attention back to the laptop. Q had mentioned Bond’s back door into MI-6. Bond had wondered if anyone else had ever found it. It wasn’t a surprise to discover that the Quartermaster had been the only one to do so. He began the process of hacking M and was pleased to discover Q had never shut down his access.

 

Hours later he stood, body complaining and ignored. He retrieved the phones in the pockets of the jacket he’d draped over his chair. Holding the one that had been dark for too long, he opened the other. 

A steady stream of messages from  Madeleine  scrolled by. A brief flutter of guilt emerged in the back of his mind. He owed her, his conscience reasoned. Without bothering to finish reading all the messages, he dialed her number. 

“James,”  Madeleine’s voice was groggy. He’d woken her. “James, where are you?”

“London.” It was one word and an entire explanation. “Something’s happened.”

“An emergency? MI-6?” Her voice became clear, alert. James grunted, noncommittally. “We’ve discussed this, James. Your country has asked enough of you. To ask anything more is too much. You’ve given a life and a half to it. It’s ok to take what you have left. You are allowed your own life.” It could have been a rote recitation but it was compassionate, patient. 

“This  _ is _ my life,” he answered, though doing so tore something from him. 

“It doesn’t have to be. Come home. Leave it behind and come  _ home. _ ”

James reached a hand to his side, palm fitting snug over the grip of his gun. “Maybe  _ this  _ is home,” he whispered.

“Only if you settle for it.” She paused. “Your country can continue without you. You are only one man.”

He let go of the gun and moved his hand to cradle his head. He wished - 

“Is it her?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Who?”

“Whoever it is you are terrified to talk about.” The softness of her voice, completely lacking accusation, pained him. He could not correct her, could not speak  _ his _ name. 

“Come back to me, James,” she whispered, a heartfelt plea, not from his doctor or the daughter of a mobster, but from a woman who loved him.

“I will soon,” Bond lied.

She sighed again. “I don’t know if I will still be here when you do.” There was a pregnant pause and a muffled rustle as she shifted in the bed. “This is not the life I want.”

“It’s the only one I know.”

“Maybe it is.” 

He heard the shuffle of her getting out of bed. 

“The sun is coming up here,” she said. In his mind’s eye he could see her: radiant and soft in the delicate glow of the early morning light as it streamed in from large windows that framed a pink sky; a memory, a dream. “You can have a full life of your own.” Her words were a promise but he knew he didn’t deserve it.

“I’ve loved you,” he whispered, and it was true.

“The parts of you you could spare,” she said, “the parts of you not already claimed elsewhere. The scraps of Queen and country and-” she stopped before mentioning the person who’d already claimed his heart. 

“You deserve more,” James said.

“I know I do,” she replied.

“Take care of yourself, Madeleine-” The line went dead.

 

His sleep was fitful, guilty. He dreamed he was lost in sheeting rain. He turned about in circles until he pitched, head first, over the railing of a bridge. When he slammed into the water his mouth gaped open. He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning. Something brushed against his face and he jerked, turning his head to see Q, pale as death, his hair a black halo framing his face.

“I knew you would find me, Bond,” he said. James reached for him but before he could touch him, Q’s eyes rolled back in his head and he disappeared.

Waking suddenly, James reached for his half-full glass of scotch on the floor beside the couch. He downed it and dragged a hand over his eyes. They ached in the early morning light. James sat and tapped the laptop awake. Adjusting its screen, Bond resumed his research. 

Before he logged out he pulled up the email account Q had never deactivated. He typed up a letter that only Q would see, once all this was over, and saved it into his drafts. Bond stood, reached for his coat and left.

 

Adrift from the resources of MI-6, Bond had to fall back on some of his less savory connections. He sent a series of texts and packed a valise. He would have to make several stops but they shouldn’t hold him up too much. The internal clock at the back of his mind counted away the hours since Q had been taken. 

Emerging in his car from the garage, James moved to merge with traffic and was distracted by a flashing yellow light on his display. The car needed gas. Instantly alert, he turned off the main road to the nearest filling station. It was small - a one person kiosk standing guard over a single, double-sided pump. A car occupied the side nearest the kiosk so he pulled, smoothly, into the other. 

He began to fuel his car, which had been full the night before, when a familiar figure emerged from the other car. Their eyes met briefly and the absence of a flicker of recognition told Bond that this meeting wasn’t happenstance.

Mallory put a fuel nozzle in his car and lifted his hand to press a cellphone to his ear. “Yes, Tanner,” Mallory said, voice not necessarily pitched high but it was enough for Bond to hear clearly. “We can address that in five days when I’ve returned from Spain.”  _ Seville _ . Q’s last known whereabouts. James knew a tip-off when he saw one.

Mallory paced the length of his car as if consumed by his call. “Yes, I’m headed to Heathrow, now. Just had to stop and fill up.” Mallory stood and paused as if listening.

James trotted to the bucket and squeegee provided and began to work on wiping down his windshield. He kept himself loose but every bit of his honed awareness was focused on Mallory and the link he provided to Q.

“Yes, of course. This is of utmost importance.” Mallory sighed. Methodically, Bond over-cleaned the windshield, meticulously avoiding getting any fluid on his suit. Both pumps stopped in quick succession and Bond went to return his. 

He and the Director of MI-6 faced one another again and Mallory’s blue eyes seemed to sear into Bond. “Do whatever it is you must, Tanner, just see it done.” Mallory spoke into the phone but his eyes were unblinking in their stare. He rang off and returned the phone to his coat pocket. 

There was a small tinkle of metal hitting concrete and Bond dropped to tie the already tight lace of his left shoe. Mallory returned to his car and drove off, a small silver key left in his wake. Reaching, Bond grabbed it and dropped it in his pocket. 

 

An hour of London traffic later, he walked through Heathrow with purpose, face blank. He made for Terminal 5 and stopped at a set of lockers. Confirming the number on the key, he scanned for 221. He opened the locker and retrieved the backpack, leaving the key behind.

 

“You drive like a maniac, you know.” Q’s voice echoed in his memory. Haunted, Bond gripped the while and tried to focus as he drove through the rain, on the route to Paris. The memory was persistent, however, dragging him into the past. Perhaps he didn’t want to stop the voice intruding on his thoughts as he navigated through narrow streets. 

“I am an excellent driver I’ll have you know,” James had replied, consciously letting mirth dance in his eyes. Flirting with his Quartermaster was an indulgence he reveled in at every opportunity. The barely suppressed smile that had teased at Q’s lips had been its own reward. The Quartermaster’s eyes had drunk in the late fall sun, reflecting it back with a buoyant glow. 

Bond had purposefully taken their next turn more tightly than strictly required. Q’s shoulder had brushed against his, just as James had planned. 

“You could  _ not _ ride with me,” he’d offered.

“Oh, I’ve ridden with maniacs before,” Q had said with an even voice. “I know their type.” He hadn’t bothered to hide his smile then. His teeth had caught his lower lip and a flush had spread over his cheeks. 

James gripped the wheel, knuckles turning white, and tried to focus on the street obscured by rain and fog. His heart stung with the memory of just one of a thousand times he should have kissed Q, crushed the man to himself. Every moment he spent searching was just another moment Q endured in the hands of his captors. James held no illusions as to their capabilities. 

A shattering pain reverberated through Bond’s chest. The fissures that had appeared two nights before in South Africa that had grown, threatening to pull  him apart through plane ride and relentless searching. He’d held on tight to his purpose, his self-appointed mission, in an attempt to lose himself in an objective. But something in James had fatally broken after last night, after his talk with  Madeleine, after the message he’d sent into the darkness. Q was gone. That half-believed truth was a world-shattering reality. There was a possibility he’d never see Q’s eyes or lips or mop of unruly hair. There was a chance that what he’d rejected would be lost forever.

He pulled off the road, hands shaking. He turned off the car and tried to breathe around his self-recrimination.

_ You can have a full life of your own,  _ she had said. He didn’t deserve it. James knew that, but-. The memory of Q sitting next to him in a car so many months ago, the memory of Q looking up at him as a party swirled around him, the memory of so many lost opportunities pressed their weight upon him. James had had no life, then a fractured one. He’d been so stupid. 

_ He’s alive, _ James promised himself. Bond would find him and make up for all that they’d lost. He didn’t deserve a full life but perhaps he could earn it. 

Needing distraction from burgeoning hope, he turned to the bag in the passenger seat. James opened it and revealed a passport, an envelope of cash in varying denominations. There was also a padded case, locked. He flipped it over and punched a code into the buttons of one side, 0-0-7. A swiped his thumb over the smooth facet by the clasp brought a soft beep as the case clicked open.

Incredulous, James attempted a laugh but pressure closed his throat tight so it emerged more a wretched gasp. He lifted the Walther and flicked it. It was  _ his _ , coded to his genetic signature. 

Bond pulled the gun from his side holster, replaced it with the Walther and left it in the case. He picked up the tiny radio and slid it into his inside breast pocket. James stared at the last item for a long time, almost afraid to touch it.

He lifted it gingerly and a slip of paper fluttered into his lap. Retrieving the paper, he read:

1 click activate

2 clicks deactivate

30 seconds. 

Bond clenched his jaw and, hand steady, placed the pen in his front jacket pocket. 

The last item in the bag was a smaller case with a syringe ensconced in foam: an offer. With a grimace he unbuttoned his left cuff, rolled it up his arm, took a breath and held it. Bond held the syringe over his forearm and lowered it to his skin, depressing one end.

He grunted as pain shot up his arm to lodge in his shoulder blade. It never felt easier. Tossing the syringe, he dragged fingers up his arm, prodding at the now tender flesh. Bond’s eyes tightened at the pain but he poked until he felt it, the barest outline of the small metal rod now embedded in his skin. 

It wasn’t Q’s new tracking system but the older, cruder version. It was enough.

Bond started the car back up and turned it around, heading back to the airport. He had intended to drive all the way to Seville, relying on the tracking system within the car but it had just been rendered unnecessary. 

At the airport counter he flashed his best smile and requested the first flight available to Madrid.

_ I’ll find you Q _ , he told himself as the flight took off,  _ I’ll find you and tell you. _ Perhaps he could earn the life he longed for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...is there such a thing as too much angst? Discuss. Lol! As always thanks to mah bebs, Castastrophe and i-feel-electric. Also I made some last minute changes so let me know if you catch anything egregious.


	3. Hunting

_Their captors had caught on after the first week or so. True to their initial resolve, neither spoke, neither gave up the code that allowed them to communicate with one another. They had not, however, been allowed further communication._

_He had not seen Daniel since, and the days had begun to bleed into one another. That had been the fracture, the sliver through which a knife slipped to begin prying Q apart._

_“It’s you, isn’t it?” Bulbous said. He’d been given no names so Q was left to devise his own, a commentary on the man’s intellect for all that it was applicable to his girth. “Come now,” the vile man continued in unaccented English, “you cannot maintain this charade forever.”_

_Q maintained his silence. The man leaned over the back of Q’s chair, uncomfortably close. Q could smell onions on his breath and his stomach churned. “We know it’s_ you _, Quartermaster.” Q jerked his head away in disgust. “We know who you are and one way or another you_ will _help us.”_

_Q sneered but persisted in his silence. Bulbous backhanded him, snapping his neck back painfully. He allowed himself a hiss before glaring back up at his torturer. He was allowed a moment of hate before being jerked up and led back to the basement room that served as his cell. He’d grown adept at navigating the too-familiar rooms to his jail blindfolded. It was the only way he ever experienced them. Bulbous was his only human connection. The name had been funny enough the first few days. Q had laughed at his joke. So had Daniel. It wasn’t funny anymore._

_Trapped in ever-present grey with only his memories, he was sure he felt himself going a little mad. That night he dreamt of James saving him and woke with a start, cursing his weakness. The next morning Bulbous was not alone in their sparse interrogation room. There was a screen behind him and a laptop on the table beside him._

_On the monitor, bound, gagged and gaunt was Daniel._

 

* * *

 

 

Time had compressed and expanded to emerge as an eternal day of relentless searching that had stretched into weeks. Food was fuel and sleep an enemy that took him unawares only to be overthrown at his first opportunity. James criss-crossed Europe following lead after lead and his body ached, his eyes burned and his mind felt in danger of permanent fracture.

He was here, surely. All signs pointed to Q still being in Europe and James had been relentless following the leads.

"James." A voice called him; his name hung in the air, ignored. "James, come back."

He blinked and looked around. “Mariana,” he said using her new name. Lucia walked from the darkened room to stand beside him on the shallow ledge that served as the balcony outside a large full-height window. Lucia pulled from her cigarette and let out a puff of air. Bond watched it shroud the air between them before disappearing into the night.

Lucia’s face was cast in the half light of the new moon, the only illumination of the sleepy town in which she’d settled, high in the mountains of the Sierra Nevadas. In the distance, unseen, a stream babbled into the night. Together they looked down upon the white village cast in the eerie glow of the moon. Far in the distance, further down the mountain were the cerulean dots of other villages.

“I have few connections left. None that know I am still alive.” Lucia took a final drag from her cigarette before flicking it past the railing. He looked at her with the little bit of hope he could muster. She was his only point with any sort of tie to what was left after Spectre’s demise. “Why should I do this for you? Risk that to find one person?

“It is a lot to ask,” James acknowledged. He knew he should regret what he was doing. She’d made it out, she was in hiding no matter how she wanted to pretty up her retirement, but he was desperate. “I would not come to you had I any other option.”

“It is a bother that you were able to find me so easy,” she said.

“It wasn’t easy.” He offered her a sad smile in apology. It truly hadn’t been easy. He’d come to her as soon as he’d realized who and where she was.   

A hand reached for him, settling on his bare forearm and he recoiled. Her touch seared his over-sensitive skin.

“This is new for you,” she said. “I would not imagine you are a man who often rejects a woman’s touch.” Lucia’s words shook Bond, their sting needled into him.

He could not stop his reaction. He grabbed for her, hand finding purchase on the swelling curve of her hip. His fingers dug into soft, yielding flesh. Too hard, yet her gasp was tinged with pleasure. She smiled but her eyes were hard. Incensed, he yanked her against him and molded himself into her, his body was a weapon, sex a deflection, negating her words.

She melted into him, quicksilver flowing over the planes of his body. Memory gave promise to the hitch in her breath. His free hand let go the cool wrought iron of the balcony railing to bury itself in the silken warmth of her hair. He pulled, arching her neck, and she groaned, heat rolling in waves off her skin.

Bond claimed her mouth: a definitive statement on his virility, masculinity. A sham.

James’s body recoiled even as he pressed himself against her. His blood was sludge in his veins and his cock lay dormant, uninterested where it pressed between them. Irate, he broke off the kiss and Lucia looked up at him, lips full and wet but her eyes had changed, grown sad.

“It’s like that, is it?” Lucia’s voice was soft. He let her go, hands stinging, and turned back to the cool mountain breeze. “Poor woman.”

“Man,” James corrected.

“Man, now?” Lucia asked. James grunted. “The one you are seeking?” Understanding colored her voice as whatever she saw in his face was answer enough.

“I saved your life once.”

Lucia hummed in response, sharing his view. A soft sigh drifted into the night as she turned and went to the cabinet beside them. She pulled out a bottle and poured two shots. “They will insist I stay in the states this time. The Americans.” She scoffed. “As if that would make me any safer.” She crossed back to him and offered her second glass. He took it but did not drink.

“Some of the States are quite nice,” he said.

“I had to fight for Europe. No one thinks anything of an old woman living on a mountain side.”

“Old?”

“Flattery is unbecoming of you.”

“Lies are unbecoming of you.”

Lucia smiled almost despite herself.

“I did save your life,” James said, returning to his point. Her lips narrowed and her eyes sparkled in the moonlight as she glared at him.

“Desperation is also unbecoming.”

“I am desperate.” For one brief moment, an eternity, he let the layers shrouding him slough off. He _was_ desperate and with her eyes on him, he let himself actually feel it. He was stripped bare, more exposed than the night they’d shared together that winter. More exposed than a hundred breathless nights spent with a mark. A hand rose to flutter the hair over his brow, a gesture achingly painful, disarmingly maternal. His breath stuttered in his chest and he closed his eyes, grasping for the fragments of his soul to piece back together.

“You are so incredibly broken,” Lucia whispered. He words were the nail on the coffin he could feel pressing against his shoulders.

“Yes,” he said and the word tore his voice raw. “He means so much. Is worth this much.”

“How can one price salvation? A person cannot be one man’s savior.”

“Then I’m damned,” he snapped, pulling back from her. “But I already knew that.” He drained the glass in his hand.

“I will do it,” she said when he wrenched the empty glass from his lips.  “Because of the look in your eyes this moment, I will do it.” She paused. “And because it is owed.” Relief swept through James, claws of hope digging deep into the aching pieces of his heart.  “But know this, James, should I _ever_ see you again, should you ever come to me again, you will not walk away.”

He nodded.

“Sleep, James,” she said, voice again deep and maternal. “I will find what can be found.” The elegant tap of her heels echoed down the hall until there was silence. Lost, James lay over the bright coverlet of the bed she’d provided. The mountain breeze drifted in from the open windows but even it’s gentle caress could not soothe the restlessness living in his skin. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

  


“Is that the best you’ve got Double-Oh?” the Quartermaster’s voice mocked, for all the man’s ass must be smarting from that last landing on the sparring mat. James didn’t feel the need to respond, opting instead to lean over and offer Q a hand. Q waved him off, irritation clean in his eyes as he stood and brushed non-existent dust from his pants. James chuckled with affection. His Quartermaster resembled one of his preening cats.

“Again?” Bond asked, resuming his stance a pace away from Q.

“Yes a-bloody-gain, you brute,” Q said barely loud enough for James to hear. He smiled and noted that Q had positioned himself in a perfect fighter’s stance, hands up and feet evenly placed to bear his weight. _Good_.

Not giving his trainee a chance to breathe, Bond attacked. Not giving ground, Q met him, deftly blocking a blow before dancing lightly away. _Very Good._

“You learn quick,” James said.

“Fat lot of good it will do me.”

“Now, Q,” James said, voice as patronizing as it could go, “you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.” Q scoffed and bounced on the balls of his feet, dodging another attack on his legs. “See, you’re doing so well.”

“Insufferable man.” Q ducked a punch and reached to offer one of his own, Bond spun away a half breath before it landed. “Fuck!”

“Come on, Q.” James’s voice practically dripped seduction. Exhilaration and lust sang in his blood as their bodies circled each other, clashing for potent moments before disengaging. “If you want to hit me, just hit me.”

Suddenly, Q was a flurry of movement, limbs and slender frame moving faster than James would have expected, taking him off guard and onto the ground. “Oof,” he grunted, then sighed as Q’s momentum propelled him right onto James’s hips, legs straddling him and fists poised for a punch. “Oh, Q.” Bond winked to hide his shock. “If I had known you wanted me on my back-”

Q lurched back and James sat, bringing his knees up to keep him from leaving. “No, don’t,” James pleaded. * _This is wrong.*_ James brought his hands up to cup Q’s face and watched his lips as a soft, sibilant breath puffed out.

“James,” Q said, and his voice was unbearably tight. “Bond what are you doing?” There was no color in his voice, his words were barely a whisper. “James-”

James groaned and pulled Q’s face down to meet him, lips burning as they pressed together. * _This isn’t how it happened.*_ Q gave a shudder and pressed against him, sending lighting down James spine. “Oh, God, James, God.” Q pulled off the kiss far enough to press their foreheads together. “What are you-”

James forestalled further discussion by rolling them over the mat, pressing Q down to the floor and covering him, hands running through his hair, down his neck to his chest. “James, please,” Q begged and James littered his pale neck with nips and kisses, bringing bright flushes of red to bloom under his skin. Impossibly long, slender legs wrapped around his hips and instinct pushed James into a thrust. “Yesss,” Q hissed, “oh, yes, Double-Oh.”

  


James jerked, the designation snapping something in him. “This isn’t what happened,” he said incongruously and sat bolt upright, heart racing. His stomach churned and his skin was slick. The wind blowing in from the window left him feeling queasy. Blinking, James let the room settle from its rocking lurch and realized his pocket was buzzing.

Confused, he retrieved and unlocked the phone. Signal had been intermittent in the mountains. A series of messages loaded in quick succession. One caught his eye an email from M. The search for Q was being called off. They were abandoning Q to his abusers. Bond closed his eyes as his world went red. _Breathe_. He resumed reading, seething at every word.

There was going to be a memorial service. Mallory could all the damned services he wanted. James didn’t have to do what the man told him anymore, not that he had ever been good at doing so to begin with.

Another email came through moments before he could throw the phone in disgust. Eve’s name atop the message spared the phone.

 

> From: Eve <EMoneypenny@MI-6 . gov>  
>  To: Bond <007@MI-6 . gov>  
>  Date: Wed, Feb 24, 2016 at 10:07 AM  
>  Subject:  Memorial Service
> 
>  
> 
> You should come
> 
> -E. Moneypenny

He flipped to the messenger and replied to her directly.

 

> **007 21:47pm**
> 
> Not bloody likely.

The phone rang before he could work himself up.

“No, really you should come,” Eve said, voice brusque. He tried to reply but she cut him off. “You need to come.”

“He isn’t dead, Moneypenny. It’s a waste of my time.”

“Have you found a lead? No, nevermind.” She took a sharp breath. “Come anyways.”

“Eve-”

“James, I am telling you. You _need_ to come to the service in _London_.”

Bond recognized the tone of her voice, her words hid layers of meaning. “I do have a lead,” he offered.

“Tell me about it when you get here.” She rang off. _Blasted woman_. He threw himself from the bed and stalked to the main room of the house.

“There hasn’t been time,” Lucia said, shocked as James marched to her. She placed the book she’d been reading on the table beside her arm chair. “I’ve only just reached out to my contacts. They are, understandably, skittish.”

“No, I understand,” James said. “I need to go.”

“But-”

“Here.” James held out a hand and gestured towards the notepad by her book. “Text this number when  you get anything. Send anything, a word, gibberish, it doesn’t matter. I will meet you 24 hours later, exactly. At San Antonio de la Florida.”

She eyed him, weighing, calculating. A slender, manicured finger tapped at her lip. “Very well,” she said and took the notepad with its scribbled numbers.

James had nothing to offer but himself. Taking her face in his hands he turned her lips up to him and kissed her. He was firm, gentle, an apology for earlier, and an offering of gratitude. He could not offer passion but he allowed a little of himself to slip through their shared breath. Using every trick he knew Bond overwhelmed her, taking her, for the briefest of moments, away from this small forgotten life on the side of a mountain. She panted as they broke apart and her smile told him she understood. “Go,” she whispered.

 

* * *

 

London was cold and dreary, stereotypes being stereotypes for a reason. The last of a miserable winter held its grip tight, lashing James with wind-driven rain as he walked through full streets. He filed it away, barely feeling the knifing cold water stinging his face. It was just another data point.

James had been tracking Eve, remarkable in a red sheath dress covered by a fitted coat, for nearly six blocks. Instinct had driven him to her first. After another block her step faltered and she stopped to gaze at an evening gown in a shop window. She tapped a foot thrice, paused, then twice, then gave a second pause before delivering a final tap. Eve looked up at the display a moment longer before resuming her walk.

A cold smile of acknowledgment tugged at James mouth. _Clever girl._ She knew she was being followed. Her pace was a bit more deliberate as she wove in and out of the crowd. He could not discern her destination as her path wound through the city. But she’d proven herself and so he followed.

Navigating the tube had been a struggle but he managed to keep eyes on her from one car back. Eventually she disembarked in a small station, empty but for the eyes behind obviously placed cameras. James moved to buy a paper from a dispenser, ostensibly eyeing the headline. Eve strode purposefully to a door situated just out of view of the cameras and entered a code on the door, slipping behind it quickly. Folding his paper he followed her. They keypad gave him no pause. He tapped in 0-0-7 and was rewarded with it’s opening snick.

Eve was waiting for him, just on the other side of the door.

“James,” she said, mouth twitching in amusement and eyes sparkling. James was not feeling indulgent.

“Moneypenny,” he snapped. She sighed and began walking down a long, narrow hall. Bond fell into step beside her.

“There was a mission. Two nights ago,” Eve said. “We had solid intel and made an attempt. It was successful on some counts.”

“What are you telling me?” James’s heart pulsed. _Q’s been found._

Eve paused at a green door and looked at him before opening it. Bond lost sensation in his limbs and his breath froze. _They found him._ James took him in, too-pale face and long limbs stretched over a hospital bed and a panoply of medical equipment. His heard the gentle beep announcing a steady heartbeat. He felt his own pulse fall into its rhythm, a reckless fancy.

“Daniel Boothroyde was apparently also taken at the same time as the Quartermaster,” Eve said, voice gentle. Confusion flooded James. _Daniel_ , that wasn’t Q’s name. James had hacked MI-6 Q’s name was-. “The Quartermaster has a twin brother. Identical,” Eve added. Realization settled in as James suddenly felt the ice cold of the glass separating their observation room from the Quarter- _Daniel’s_ hospital room. His hands curled into fists. “They were both in the same city,” Eve continued. “Whoever took them knew only what Q looked like and didn’t know which was which, so took them both.”

James needed to focus on her words but weeks of no sleep and a fragmented heart caught up with him. He slumped to the floor.

“James.” Eve knelt, wrapping arms around him. “James.” He looked up at her.

“Who?”

“We aren’t sure. The house we raided was spare and the ownership is a tangled mess. We need the Quartermaster to unravel it.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “All we had to go on was a bit of chatter intercepted from past known spectre contacts but we don’t know who’s behind it or where they are. We went expecting Q but they’d split the twins up.”

“So we’re no better off.” James turned away from her eyes.

“He will not work for them willingly. That was likely a bit of a shock, but from what we gathered from Daniel before he slipped into unconsciousness was that they were using him to coerce Q into helping them. ” Eve looked at him pointedly.

“Q is steel,” James confirmed, understanding.

“They lost their pressure point on Q. They’re going to need another.”

“The memorial is a front.”

“They haven’t been able to penetrate into MI-6’s files yet, despite having Q. They are going to need another _incentive_ to keep him cooperative. At least that’s what we’re hoping.”

“You’re thinking someone we recognize might show up at the memorial, looking for more of Q’s family.” James realized why Eve had been so insistent on him returning. Eve nodded. “I’ll need a suit,” James said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I haven't upset you too much with the unexpected hiatus. Work and illness and writers block conspired against me but I finally managed to get back on track. TBH Castastrophe deserves a medal for turning this around so quickly.

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins. Expect updates every other Friday from here on out if everything goes according to plan.


End file.
